


Part of Your World

by Songspinner



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Dark Magic, Drowning, Injury, Little Mermaid Elements, M/M, Merpeople, Muteness, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Ocean, Pain, Siblings, Transformation, Underwater
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26593750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Songspinner/pseuds/Songspinner
Summary: Sylvain's life, to put it mildly, sucks. When his brother tries to drown him and he's rescued by a beautiful merman, he'll do anything to find that man again, even if he has to abandon everything to do it.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35
Collections: Sylvix Week 2020 Fic Collection





	1. Once Upon a Time

**Author's Note:**

> It starts out as The Little Mermaid: Sylvix Edition, but the plot diverges wildly from there.
> 
> The "abuse" and "siblings" tags are for Miklan, of course, but he only shows up for a little bit at the very beginning and then never again, so if you want to skip that part, please do!
> 
> Posted for Day 2 of Sylvix Week 2020, prompt: Pining/Longing!

_ Once upon a time, there lived a young and charming prince named Sylvain, renowned for his silver tongue and handsome looks. Many suitors came to woo him from far and wide, but none ever captured his heart. His father ruled the kingdom of Gautier with the combined forces of his mighty knights, his vicious cunning, and his Crest--the magical inheritance that allowed him to wield the king’s own Lance of Ruin. Although Sylvain was the younger son, he was destined to ascend the throne someday, because his elder brother Miklan lacked the royal Crest. _

That, at least, is how Sylvain imagines his story might be told in the future. Followed, of course, by:  _ and then Miklan kidnapped his little brother, tied him to an anvil, and threw him into the ocean. And then poor Sylvain drowned, the end. _

Because here he is, bound, gagged, and tied to an anvil, and Miklan is about two minutes away from throwing him into the ocean.

It was probably the nasty insults that brought on the gagging, Sylvain decides in retrospect. Appealing to his brother’s better nature has never worked (Sylvain assumes at this point that he doesn’t have one), and tonight was no exception; bribery fell on equally deaf ears, as did begging. So Sylvain fell back on the sharp tongue-lashing he learned from their father--a skill he rarely uses, preferring to catch his flies with honey, thank you very much. That was when Miklan shut him up.

He supposes that now it’ll be the flies catching  _ him _ , when his bloated corpse washes up on shore. Hey, at least now he won’t have to worry about getting married off for his Crest. He’ll probably lose his dashing good looks, too, so being too dead to care will be a mercy. Ha ha.

Miklan has no grand speech to give or regrets to express, and Sylvain’s not surprised, because this is the same way it’s gone every  _ other _ time his brother has tried to kill him. The only difference is that this time, he’s run out of clever ways to survive. When the boat drifts far enough out to sea, Miklan simply grunts, “Good riddance, runt,” and drops the anvil over the side. Sylvain sucks in a lungful of air and only barely manages not to immediately follow it with a lungful of ocean by gasping when he hits the water--it’s  _ damned cold. _

Despite failing to escape repeatedly while still on dry land, Sylvain thrashes and struggles as he sinks rapidly. He exhausts himself quickly to no avail, and soon has only enough energy to keep holding his breath and pray to the Goddess that a kraken swallows him whole before he drowns.

* * *

Some of the other royal guards complain daily about deep sea patrol, but Felix prefers it to most of his other duties, largely because he can do it alone and avoid dealing with anyone prattling at him the whole time. Ordinarily, there isn’t much to see out here in the depths other than seaweed and assorted benthic creatures, but today is different.

Today, there’s a human falling into the ocean.

It happens, of course. It’s not common, but it’s not exactly rare, either. Thing is, by the time a human gets this far down, they’re usually dead already. This one is thrashing around like a fish on land and descending much faster than usual. Felix draws his sword from the scabbard strapped to his back and cautiously swims toward the swiftly sinking figure.

It’s obvious once he gets close enough that this human is no threat--someone apparently tried to kill him, and did a pretty good job. He isn’t dead yet, but he’s barely conscious and obviously not long for this world. Felix almost turns and leaves whoever this is to his watery demise; why should he care if some random human dies? But he lingers long enough for the man to sense his presence and pry his eyes open, and suddenly Felix is face to face with his desperation to live and his frantic pleas made incoherent by the gag in his mouth.

Felix hesitates.  _ Never get involved with landfolk _ \--it’s less a mandate and more a given. Very few of his kind who have seen a human up close have survived the encounter. Each generation passes down horror stories of merfolk getting swept up in massive fishing nets and sold for some human’s sick amusement, or harpooned and killed for their scales or as trophies. Dragging this unfortunate bastard up to the surface could put Felix in grave danger.  _ Are you really going to risk your life for a complete stranger? _ he asks himself.

And then he swears aloud. Because, of course, the answer was always going to be  _ yes _ .

One quick slash of his sword severs the rope tethering the man to the heavy chunk of metal that conveyed him to the ocean floor, and then Felix is ascending rapidly, hauling the human with him by the arm. By the time he drags his cargo up onto a sandbar, the man is unconscious. Felix swears again under his breath and dips low in the water, searching for prying eyes or passing boats. Only once he’s certain they’re alone does he finish the job of untying the human, and once that’s done, by all rights he ought to be turning tail and leaving.

Instead, he waits. To see if the man will wake up, maybe, or just to look at him, Felix isn’t sure. He’s never actually seen a human close up before. This one seems solid and strong, with broad shoulders and the most vivid red hair Felix has ever seen. Even in the cold light of bioluminescence he could tell it was bright; now, under the sun, it practically glows. A little voice in the back of Felix’s mind urges him to  _ go _ , but the stranger’s face is annoyingly handsome and he finds himself sort of staring at it. Like an idiot.

His idiocy is confirmed when he hears a shout and whirls to see a group of armored soldiers running toward their narrow strip of sand, wearing cloaks carrying some sort of vaguely wheel-shaped sigil that Felix thinks would look menacing if a sigil on a cloak could menace. And they’re coming for this human, so it’s past time for him to go.

* * *

“Dorothea, I’m  _ telling _ you, he wasn’t human!”

“Okay, Sylvain. I believe you.”

“No, you don’t.” Sylvain sighs and slumps back against the sofa in Dorothea’s dressing room. Even after a near-death experience and a fortnight’s passage, he can’t take his mind off his gorgeous rescuer. Long, dark hair floated around his pale face in the water; veins of glowing blue threaded across his bare chest and arms in a hypnotizing pattern. The glow illuminated sharp eyes the color of clear amber, or maybe rich honey. Stiff, gossamer fins adorned his spine, and in place of legs he had a magnificent fish-tail, colored a rich, silvered teal and ending in a wide, boomerang-shaped fin. Sylvain remembers it in far too much detail to have imagined or dreamt it. The fish-man  _ has _ to be real.

“You’re right, I don’t.” Dorothea gives him a slightly apologetic smile that really only serves to make him feel patronized, as she sits down in front of her huge mirror and begins applying her makeup. “You were half-drowned and half-conscious, you were probably hallucinating from lack of oxygen.”

Sylvain forces a laugh. “Eh, you’re probably right. Still, how would a human get all the way to the bottom of the ocean like that? And how would he bring light like that with him, enough for me to see him clearly?”

“The bottom of the ocean?” Dorothea scoffs. “Now you’re just exaggerating.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Because, of course, he didn’t tell her the truth of how he almost drowned. He claps his hands against his thighs and stands, stretching. “I’d better leave you to it, gorgeous.” He winks at her in the mirror. “You’ve got a lot of people to impress tonight.”

“Thank you, Sylvain,” she replies in a singsong voice, but just as he’s reaching for the doorknob, she turns with concern darkening her gaze. “Just...promise me you won’t go out sailing with a bottle of whiskey as your only company anymore, okay?”

Ah, this is the part he hates most. The part where they feel sorry for him for all the wrong reasons and he cements his role as the idiot they hate to love all over again. Like it matters, he thinks, as he rakes his hand through his hair in well-practiced roguish sheepishness and gives her a winning smile. Whether his friends like him or not, whether they respect him or not, what difference will it make, in the end? “I promise. Cross my heart and hope to--haha, guess I’d better not finish that, huh? Break a leg, Dorothea.” He gives her a wave and lets himself out, not staying to hear her exasperated _“_ _ Sylvain! _ _”_ except through the door.

The minute he’s more or less alone, sauntering down the wide, stone-paved boulevard leading from the opera house to Enbarr’s central marketplace under a clear early-evening sky, his thoughts return to the man under the sea yet again. Maybe he’s under some kind of spell, Sylvain thinks. Maybe he’s been cursed to obsess over some fishy stranger forever.

Or maybe the fish-man was just the most beautiful thing Sylvain’s ever seen in his life.

One way or another, he knows he has to do something about this distraction. He came to Enbarr to put a whole lot of distance between himself and his brother for as long as he could manage, but even making all the city’s most fashionable ladies swoon night after night is getting boring, and he’s a little embarrassed (but only a little) to remember that every time he’s been with a woman over the past two weeks, he’s been imagining someone else.

So he’ll have to put an end to this, one way or another. And if it’s some kind of magic, there’s only one man in Enbarr to see about that. And if it isn’t, well...maybe another sort of magic can help him instead.

_ Vestra Remedies _ is what the forbidding sign says, letters chiseled with precision into the black marble plaque that hangs on the door. No one who’s ever actually been inside would mistake Hubert von Vestra for an apothecary, though. No, the problems Hubert remedies are far stranger and more mysterious than an upset stomach. Sylvain has never personally been inside, but the warlock is a friend of Dorothea’s, and he’s heard all the stories.

As he steps through the door, a barrage of scents hits his nose: the bitter tang of decaying things, the cloying sweetness of incense, the delicate perfume of flowers, the heady musk of potent roots and fungi boiling in water. “Hey,” he calls into the gloom of the shop--heavy velvet drapes are pulled closed over all the windows, for...some reason. They’re black, too, because of course they are. “Anybody home?”

At first, his only response is the low, throaty  _ caw _ of the raven that wings its way overhead from somewhere in the shadows. He ducks a bit, a reflex. “Whoa, haha--wow, that’s a classic. Birds of omen. Very grim.”

“Thank you,” comes the voice in reply. “Not many have an appreciation for the finer points of presentation. Do come in.”

So Sylvain does, picking his way between tall shelves and glass cases to the back of the room, where the shape of a pale, gaunt man dressed all in black (what a shocker) resolves before him as his eyes adjust. A single candle burns on the table where the man is seated. He looks up at Sylvain with a faint smile and one sharp, brilliant eye; a thick fringe of hair covers the other one. “You must be the infamous Hubert I’ve heard so much about,” Sylvain says with a grin, pulling out the chair opposite the mage and turning it around to straddle it backwards.

“Hmm…” That eye studies him. “Red hair, brown eyes, shamelessly cocky attitude--you, in turn, must be Sylvain. Dorothea’s told me all about you.”

“Only good things, I hope.” Sylvain winks.

The dry disdain in the warlock’s chuckle serves as a clearer response than any words could have. “To what do I owe this dubious honor?”

Here’s the tricky part. “Okay, here’s the thing. I think I might be cursed. You could tell if I was, right?”

“I could.” Hubert takes a sip of his tea--no, it’s coffee, Sylvain can tell by its rich aroma--without once breaking his steady gaze. “You’re not.”

Sylvain’s eyebrows lift. “Don’t you have to do some kind of mumbo-jumbo or something?”

“Please. This is the most trivial of elementary black magic skills. Is that really all that brought you here? If so, you may take your leave.”

Sylvain rubs at the back of his neck with one hand. There is, he thinks, no way in hell that he’s about to tell  _ Hubert von Vestra _ that he daydreams about a gorgeous, ethereal fish-man constantly and desperately wants to see him again, somehow. Nor does he plan to mention the desire to never lay eyes on Gautier again that claws at his guts every day of his life. But...maybe it’s that ‘somehow’ that the mage could solve. The words fall out almost unbidden.

“Nah, there’s something else. Is there a way for me to breathe underwater?”

For the first time, Hubert looks surprised. “Well.  _ That _ is an interesting request. The correct question isn’t ‘is there a way;’ the correct question is,  _ which _ way will suit your needs? What precisely are your...needs, Master Gautier?”

Sylvain doesn’t like the way he says that word-- _ needs _ . It’s almost suggestive. At  _ best _ , it’s ominous. But he puts on a casual smile and shrugs. “Nothing in particular. Just curious about what’s at the bottom of the ocean, that’s all.”

Hubert lightly presses the fingertips of his gloved hands together and watches Sylvain over the tent of them. “Oh? In that case, I’m sure I could whip up an elixir that would last you...oh, about an hour.”

Sylvain has the distinct feeling he’s being set up for something, but he shakes his head anyway. “An hour’s not long enough. Do you have anything, uh...indefinite?”

Some odd gleam passes through Hubert’s eye. “As it happens, I do. Though you may not like the price.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Sylvain waves a dismissive hand. “Money is no object.”

“Please.” Hubert’s scorn rises from him like a fragrance. “I have no need of your money. The price of black magic is far more precious than mere gold.”

The more ominous things Hubert says, the more uneasy Sylvain grows; but the thought of going back to his empty life filled with empty flings and bullshit expectations now that he’s seen something truly captivating makes him want to puke, so he nods. “Lay it on me, then.”

Hubert stands, his long fingers beckoning as he vanishes even farther into the room’s depths. Sylvain feels like a marionette pulled along on a string as he follows the warlock into a circular little room glowing eerily with evanescent wisps of purple light chasing each other above a stone floor that’s entirely covered in runes and sigils in complex patterns. “Wow, that sure does look like the sort of thing that could suck out my soul,” he quips with a playful grin, although he isn’t actually kidding at all.

The mage chuckles and it sounds the way velvet being rubbed the wrong way feels. “Nonsense, Master Gautier. We would need all day and night for that, and I can’t spare the time.”

Sylvain does not want to know whether or not that’s a joke. “So what’s this for, then?”

“Do you believe in fairy tales?”

“Why, do you want to be my Prince Charming?” He winks.

“How very droll.” Hubert strides into the room, where the purple wisps light up his face in a way that makes it look  _ exactly _ like a fleshless skull. “Some tales of old speak of an undersea people who live in the depths, never revealing themselves to human eyes. These tales are, in fact, true. And, should you accept my offer, I can transform you into one of them.”

Sylvain burns with a smug intensity--he was right, what he saw was real, he  _ wasn’t _ hallucinating. Unless Hubert somehow heard about the fish-man who rescued him and is playing him like a fiddle, but he can’t see how that’s possible. “So far so good. What’s this price you mentioned?”

The self-indulgent little smile on Hubert’s face is almost lascivious in its anticipation, as if he’s been waiting for this moment in particular. “The price is this: the magic will only last for three days and three nights, unless you can forge a sincere personal bond with one of the seafolk in that time. If you can, congratulations, you’ll be one of them in truth. If not, you’ll return to your...human self.” He looks Sylvain up and down, like he’s disappointed in what he sees. Which, Sylvain thinks, is preposterous--he’s the most handsome guy he knows!

But he frowns, lowering his gaze to the sigils outlined in unearthly purple. A sincere bond, huh? Sylvain’s not sure when the last time was he forged one of those--if he even ever has. When he was a kid, maybe, but if so it didn’t take long for Miklan and his parents to crush it out of him. Still, he has a head start; surely, the guy who saved his life should be pretty easy to befriend? So he nods. “Sounds simple enough.”

Hubert’s smile grows a touch wider, and Syvlain feels like he’s swallowed a spider. “Simple, perhaps. However, there is one other catch. You see, during those three days and nights, the spell will hold a...collateral, of sorts, until its conclusion one way or another.” He gestures with an elegant motion. “Your voice.”

“Oh, come  _ on. _ ” Sylvain groans. “Now you’re just messing with me. How am I supposed to forge a sincere bond if I can’t talk?”

“Ah, Master Gautier, sometimes the most charming people in the world are those who don’t talk.”

Sylvain sighs. That will make it difficult, he thinks, but not impossible. He can do it. And if he can’t, then he’ll be no worse off than he is now. He nods and sticks out his hand. “All right. It’s a deal.”

“Excellent.” Hubert steps forward and shakes the offered hand with a light touch and a hungry stare.

* * *

The trip back to Gautier is a strange one. Ordinarily, he’d take his time--stop in at every town along the way, spend the night with some pretty stranger, take advantage of their hospitality. But he feels like it would really fall flat if he had to write everything down just to get his point across. He hasn’t flirted by passing notes since he was a teenager, and he doesn’t really want to regress.

So he makes do with hunting and making camp in the empty places between towns instead. He may  _ like _ the city, but Sylvain grew up in the harshest, most barren place in all of Fódlan. He can live off the land with the best of them. He avoids people on the roads as he rides, and doesn’t bother to stop at home when he reaches Gautier territory. Not that giving his family the silent treatment would be anything new, but he has no desire whatsoever to see them.

Instead, he heads directly for the cold, rocky beach and the private little dock where they keep the fishing boat. The area has several, but Sylvain knows exactly which one Miklan used--it’s easy to see your route when you’re being dragged by your hair. Haha.

Sylvain doesn’t bother with the boat, though, or the dock. Instead, he walks into the surf, letting the foam spill over his boots. He opens his mouth to mutter  _ This must be impressively stupid, because I think it’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever done _ ; but only a thin whisper comes out, and he pushes down the flicker of dread that kindles in the pit of his stomach. He strips off his clothes without fanfare--there’s no one else here, and even if there were, he would have bigger things to worry about than them seeing his naked ass--until the only things he’s wearing are the little glass vial Hubert gave him on a thick cord around his neck and a thin layer of sand on his legs.

The sea breeze and the water are cold but bracing. So is the steel of his lance’s haft when he straps it to his back. Yeah, he’s taking the Lance of Ruin with him, hopefully as a final  _ fuck you _ to his father. If this all goes wrong, he supposes it’ll just be an act of spite. Either way, he’s cool with it.

He wades further into the water with uncertain steps.  _ If _ this works--and he’s beginning to think that’s a pretty hefty ‘if’--he doesn’t want to be standing on land when it does. Hey, just because he’s alone doesn’t mean he has to sacrifice his dignity. He keeps going until the waves slosh up against his hips. He stares out at the vast ocean, then turns to stare back at the beach. He wonders if he’ll miss it. Walking, running, horseback riding, dancing...wait, do sea people even have  _ sex? _ He  _ really  _ should have done his homework.

‘Oh well,’ he whispers. ‘Bottoms up.’ He yanks on the vial, breaking the cord, and uncorks it. The viscous fluid inside is purple and black, and it oozes around at the bottom of its glass prison as he shakes it a little, and Sylvain can’t help but feel like it’s  _ alive _ somehow. It smells like fish and rotten eggs and salt water. He drinks it anyway, taking care to lick out every drop he can despite the horrible taste. And then he waits.

Not long. Just long enough to feel uneasy at whatever it is brushing past his legs in the water, before a sudden spike of pain lances down his spine. He’d cry out if he could; as it is, his mouth stretches open silently as he convulses, every muscle in his body tensing, his back arching. He staggers, and the pain shoots from his tailbone down to his feet. His legs give out as another spasm takes him and the waves devour him whole, jostling and shoving, dragging him farther from shore; his mouth and lungs are filling with water and he can’t breathe, and he thinks wildly that Hubert must have just taken the opportunity dropped into his lap to murder the king’s heir--

And then he stops thinking much at all, because he can  _ hear _ the bones in his hips and legs cracking,  _ splintering _ , and he would  _ definitely _ be screaming if it weren’t for this incredibly stupid situation he put himself in, and he wishes he would just  _ pass the fuck out already _ but the Goddess must have a vendetta against him because he’s conscious and miserable the whole time that his body rearranges itself while he flails and drowns in agony.

This goes on for roughly a thousand years (or three minutes, whatever) and then abruptly stops. His vision is blurry and his eyes are too warm--tears. He’s exhausted, as though he’s just sprinted a mile; his back is sore, his hips ache, and when gravity coaxes him down to lie back on the soft sand, he lets it. Maybe he’ll take a nap--

Wait.  _ I’m still underwater. _ He thrashes for one panicked moment, trying to hold his breath, until he realizes he’s not actually  _ breathing _ at all. He’s just...here, underwater, and he’s fine. He tries to right himself in the water and put his feet back on the ground, too disoriented to act on anything but instinct, but all he ends up accomplishing is kicking up a lazy cloud of sand with his tail.

Oh.

_ Oh. _ ‘Oh!’ he breathes out in a little cloud of bubbles, even though he’s not breathing  _ in _ , but down here he can’t even hear the whisper.  _ It worked. Holy shit, it worked!  _ He laughs, only mildly alarmed when it comes out completely silent, and stops to just  _ look _ at himself.

His hands and arms seem unchanged. He twists awkwardly in the water, trying to see his back--he remembers that the fish-man had a fin on his back that was stiff enough to almost be a ridge--and can make out a long, narrow, delicate fin stretching back behind him, tapering off into what almost look like tendrils. Now that he’s paying more attention, he can feel a slight, strange coolness on his neck just below his ears; feeling at it with his fingers, he realizes they’re  _ gills _ , though folded so close to the skin that he imagines they’re barely visible--he doesn’t remember the fish-man having visible gills, either.

And then, of course...there’s the tail. It’s long and densely muscled, covered in pearlescent scales of sunset orange and wine red, separated into segments by two stripes of dark silver. At the bottom, diaphanous fins blossom out into the water and float gracefully, longer than the fish-man’s and more translucent at the ends, shaped not like a boomerang but like a sort of flimsy wedge.

Okay, so...no going back ashore for him, then. Not unless he wants to practice his handstands. But  _ damn _ , is he pretty.

He laughs again, not really because it’s funny but because he doesn’t know what else to do with himself. Soon, though, the novelty wears off enough that he feels ready to venture farther into the depths. The whole point of this, after all, was to go find the fish-man.

The...other fish-man.

Sylvain learns immediately that swimming without legs is much harder than it looks. At first, all he accomplishes is turning himself in circles, his instincts still trying to paddle with feet that don’t exist. He remembers that fish swim by wiggling their tails back and forth, so he tries that, but still only inches through the water until he realizes that his fins are oriented horizontally like a whale, not vertically like a fish. By the time he figures out how to swim at a decent clip, he’s  _ also _ realized that trying to use his arms in conjunction with the tail like he normally would is counterproductive.

He doesn’t mind the trial and error. He  _ does _ mind that he might look like a clumsy jackass in front of the fish-man. Speaking of which...as Sylvain slips past the shallows and the ocean floor yawns open below him for miles, he feels like maybe he miscalculated a little in thinking he could just jump into the ocean and find someone. Okay, new plan. He swims back up to the surface and surprises himself by inhaling deeply--ah ha. Gills underwater, lungs up here. He can work with this.

From here, he can follow more or less a straight line from the dock out to where Miklan shoved him overboard. It’s not precise, but it doesn’t have to be--he just needs a direction to swim in. It seems easier to orient himself underwater than it did when he was human ( _ when he was human _ what a bizarre thing to think), so he plunges back under and makes a beeline for the bottom of the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for checking this out! I should have at least one more chapter of this up for Sylvix Week, and then it'll go in the rotation with my other fics for updating.


	2. The Lionfish King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain finds Felix, meets the ruler of the Undersea Kingdom of Faerghus, and is very Sylvain about everything. Lots of eyerolling ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter posted for Sylvix Week 2020 day 3: High Seas AU!

“You could go back to the surface,” Annette suggests unhelpfully.

“I’m not going back to the surface.” Felix pushes apart a thick clump of seaweed; finding nothing in or behind it, he moves on with Annette in tow.

“But Felix! You said it yourself, you won’t get a good night’s sleep until you know whether that human guy survived or not.”

He deeply regrets having said that. “I didn’t say that,” he grumbles.

“Yes you did!”

“...fine, I might have. But going to the surface to find out is just asking to get a harpoon to the throat. Besides, you think he’ll just...magically  _ happen _ to be on the beach when I get there?”

“Well, um…” She deflates. “I guess you’re right. I can just tell you’re worried about him, and now  _ I’m _ worried about him vicariously.”

“I just have to forget about it, that’s all. I have more important things to worry about than one stupid human. The Adrestians could show up at any time, we have to be ready.” In truth, Felix doesn’t think it’s likely that the enemy could come upon them before any Faerghan scouts spotted them and sounded the alarms; nonetheless, he’s determined to stay vigilant.

“You can be concerned about more than one thing at a time, you kn--” Annette cuts herself off with a quiet gasp, then whispers, “Someone’s coming.”

Felix frowns and snaps to readiness, drawing his sword and gesturing to her to take up one side of the clump of seaweed while he takes the other, ready to ambush the intruder. They settle in among the thick fronds and wait, as Felix holds up a hand, ready to signal. The silhouette comes closer...closer…

“Now!” Felix hisses, and he and Annette move simultaneously--he to slip swiftly around the incoming merman and rest the tip of his sword at the nape of his neck, she to appear in front of him with the glow of magic in her hands and a pulsing glyph in the air before her, serving to highlight the fierce scowl on her face.

“Halt!” she commands. The newcomer seems off-guard but doesn’t halt right away, instead awkwardly flailing his arms and thrashing his tail until he slides to a halt much closer to Annette than she’d intended. “Hey, back off!”

Felix watches as the merman ducks his head and holds up his hands in surrender, though he doesn’t say anything. He eyes the odd lance strapped to the stranger’s back and prods slightly at his neck with the blade. “I’m taking your weapon. Who are you and what are you doing here?”

The newcomer flinches but still doesn’t respond. Felix huffs in irritation and snatches the lance from its harness with his free hand, looking it over. Sturdy, well-balanced, clearly a master quality weapon--and with a unique sort of blade reminiscent of his own people’s relics. So this isn’t just some random scout, Felix thinks. “Turn around. Slowly. If you try to flee, she’ll flay you alive.” He ignores the wide-eyed look of protest Annette gives him--of course, she’d never  _ flay _ anyone, it’s a figure of speech--and watches as the merman...sort of wiggles his way around to face Felix, clumsy as a hatchling.  _ What is going on with-- _

“ _ You?! _ ” Felix stares at the intruder’s stupid, sheepish face in shock. “What the  _ hell?” _

Annette jumps, almost releasing her spell by accident. “What’s wrong, who is he?”

“It’s the human! Except he’s...not!” His stare becomes an accusing scowl. “Explain yourself right now or I’ll run you through.” The stranger--the human??--looks panicked now, his mouth forming silent, hurried words. Felix narrows his eyes. “What’s wrong with you? You had no trouble making noises at me before.” The other merman drags his hands down his face, clearly frustrated, and then mimes writing with one hand. Felix arches an eyebrow, as Annette cautiously lets go of her spell without casting it and moves alongside Felix. “You think I just carry pen and parchment around with me?”

“Ooh, he could use the sand!” Annette points down at the ocean floor. “You know, write in it with his fingers.” She turns from Felix back to the stranger, only to find that--now that she isn’t actively threatening him--he’s staring open-mouthed at her chest. She glances down at it--maybe she’s got some seaweed stuck to her breasts or something?--but sees nothing amiss. “What are you staring at?”

The newcomer claps a hand over his mouth and shakes his head quickly, dragging his gaze back up to her eyes. She glances to Felix and he shrugs. How is he supposed to know what foolishness goes through a human’s mind? “Fine,” Felix says after a moment. “Write in the sand. If we find out you’re an Adrestian spy, you die.”

“I don’t really think they’d send someone so goofy,” Annette says without thinking, and then backpedals, mortified. “Uh, not that goofy is  _ bad _ , necessarily, just--! No offense…”

The stranger shrugs casually with a dashing grin and winks at her. Felix instantly dislikes him. “Get down there and write before I change my mind,” he grumbles.

The intruder obeys, sinking down to the bottom slowly instead of just diving, for some absurd reason. Once there, he gestures to himself and then writes ‘S Y L V A I N.’ “Your name is Sylvain?” Felix asks, and he nods with a winning smile. “That doesn’t explain anything.”

“Oh, come on, Felix,” Annette scolds mildly. “He’s trying to be friendly! Hi, Sylvain. I’m Annette, and this grump here is Felix. I promise he’s actually secretly nice.”

Felix mutters something under his breath as Sylvain gives them both some kind of ridiculous courtly bow. “Save your groveling for the king. Are you really human, or was that all some kind of inane trick?”

Sylvain nods, then thinks better of it and shakes his head, then rolls his eyes and writes, ‘HUMAN.’ Then he brushes away those letters with his tail and writes, ‘MAGIC CHANGE.’

“What?” Felix looks at Annette, as if to ask whether that’s even possible. She tilts her head, thinking for a moment, and then shrugs. “I don’t see why not,” she says.

“...fine.” Felix turns his attention back to Sylvain. “Let’s say that’s true. Why are you here?”

It takes a good five seconds for Felix to register it when Sylvain smiles and points at him. It’s not until Annette gives a little squeal and her hands fly to her mouth and then she nudges Felix with her elbow with an obnoxious little grin that he gets what she’s implying and scowls. “That’s ridiculous. And obviously a lie.” He lifts his sword again to point it at the supposed human. “Try again.”

Sylvain rolls his eyes so hard Felix is almost surprised not to see them bouncing out of his skull onto the sand. He shrugs like he’s at a loss and writes, ‘KEPT THINKING ABOUT U.’ Then he pauses and erases it with his tail to continue, ‘ALSO LIFE SUCKS.’

“Aww…” Annette leans over to quietly mutter in Felix’s ear, “Come on, give him a chance! What if he really did do all this just to see you? The dreamy savior who rescued him from certain death…”

“Stop it,” Felix hisses at her. He rubs his face with one hand and sighs. “Okay, say I believe  _ that _ , too. What exactly is it you’re expecting me to do?”

The human shrugs again, with what looks like an apologetic smile. “...you have no idea, do you.” Sylvain shakes his head, sheepish. “You just...transformed yourself and leapt into the ocean without a plan?” He nods. “You’re an idiot,” Felix says.

‘Probably,’ Sylvain mouths soundlessly, with a disarming grin.

Felix hates that his next thought is,  _ He’s just as handsome awake as asleep. _

“Uuugh.” Felix sheaths his sword. “Come on, then. I’m holding on to this--” He hefts the lance in one hand. “For now, at least. Don’t make a nuisance of yourself. If you cause trouble for me, I won’t hesitate to slit your throat.” The human cocks an eyebrow at him. “What, you don’t believe me?” Another shit-eating grin. “Hmph.”

* * *

The trip to this Undersea Kingdom of Faerghus where Felix and Annette apparently live is uneventful, which is good because Sylvain needs some time to adjust. To things like mermaids not wearing any clothes--good thing he’s had a lot of practice getting told ‘eyes up here!’ because Annette, for all that she seems sweet and adorable, was terrifying for those few seconds when he thought she was going to murder him in cold...uh...water.

He also has to adjust to the inability to speak. He’d thought it would be no big deal, but it’s proving to be frustrating--particularly since Felix seems stubbornly allergic to social cues. Still gorgeous, though--Sylvain can’t fault his memory on that one.

And he’s still adjusting to swimming with this tail. It’s stylish, he can’t deny that, but he’s still clumsy with it. He sure hopes he doesn’t piss Felix off enough to kill him, because there’s no way in hell Sylvain would ever be able to outrun him. Or out...swim him.

“The first thing you’ll have to do when we get there is meet the king,” Felix says, pulling Sylvain out of his thoughts. “And  _ he’s _ not going to buy your dumb story, so--”

‘Hey!’ Sylvain tries to say, and then settles for a gesture with both hands and a vaguely affronted look.

“--so we’ll tell him you’re an Adrestian refugee,” Felix goes on, barely acknowledging the interruption. “I’d say let me do the talking, but I guess that’s a given.” He smirks.

Ah ha, so Felix  _ does _ have a sense of humor! Sylvain’s glad. He’s still trying to figure out how to effectively tease him about it when the ocean floor opens up before them into a vast underwater valley. Sylvain would have expected it to be dark and gloomy, but instead it’s lit up with rambling patches of bioluminescent fungi and huge, glowing balls of magical light. Rows of dwellings carved directly into the cliff face stretch as far as the eye can see, and in the center of it all stands a towering palace of stone and coral and glass, its tall spires seeming to reach for the surface.

_ Whoa… _ Sylvain must have been gaping like a fish for longer than he thought, because Felix’s irritated voice jars him back to attentiveness-- “Well? Are you coming or not?” He hurries to catch up, descending into the valley and having some trouble deciding where to put his gaze; the farther they go, the more there is to see. For one thing, the merfolk clearly have an entire society here; the valley appears to go on for miles and miles, and Felix did say they had a king, which means they must have a kingdom, too. Sylvain can’t take his eyes off the (naked) people swimming around everywhere and going about their business: chatting, sparring, eating, playing, working… The palace isn’t the only building, but the others are few and far between; it seems like most of the indoor spaces are inside the caves dug into the cliff wall.

Annette bids them farewell when they get close to the palace, leaving Sylvain alone with his attractive, surly rescuer. They pause just before entering, and Felix says, “Just don’t piss him off. He’s not exactly what you’d expect from a king.” Sylvain shrugs with a wry look; he really has no expectations, since all the high-ranking nobility he knows are a bunch of arrogant bullies, his father included. ‘Don’t piss him off’ sounds about right to him.

They pass through the open archway--Sylvain hasn’t seen a single door yet--and down a long corridor lined with tile mosaics depicting undersea battles with merfolk soldiers in shell armor, riding dolphins and enormous seahorses, attacking each other with polearms and harpoons. Finally, they pass under an even grander archway into what Sylvain assumes must be the throne room, but it’s hard to tell. The gloom is so thick here that he can barely see beyond his own arm’s reach.  _ Why aren’t there any lights? _

Felix is already moving forward into the murk. Sylvain hurries to keep up, even though the dark water feels like a wall closing in around him and his heart pounds harder the further they go. His skin crawls, some instinct half-expecting something to reach out from the depths and grab at him, drag him somewhere even darker, swallow him whole--

He almost gasps, jarred out of his trance by a single, ice-blue eye piercing the shadows ahead to fix him with an unblinking stare. He glances sidelong at Felix, who seems unperturbed, though Sylvain can’t see how he could be.

“Who is this?” comes a sonorous growl that rumbles up through the ocean floor from the fathomless depths of hell--or at least, that’s how Sylvain hears it.

“This is Sylvain,” Felix says, as though this were just any old conversation. “He’s come from Adrestia to seek asylum. Sylvain, meet King Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd.”

This, at least, is familiar to him--the etiquette and expectations of royalty, how one is meant to greet a king. With an impressive lack of wobbling, if he does say so himself, he swims forward a little and gives the...eye...a formal bow.

At first, his only response is silence. He wills himself not to fidget, falling back on years of princely training to keep still and smiling. He clings to that smile even when an enormous shape suddenly looms before him, emerging from where the king was lurking on what is presumably his throne. Sylvain has to tip his head back to meet King Blaiddyd’s eye--just one, as the other is covered with a black patch. Dimitri’s tail is longer and thicker than any Sylvain has seen yet, covered in deep royal blue scales striped with bands of black; it tapers into a long, translucent fin, fan-shaped, with rays in the same coloring. That would be impressive enough, but what really leaves Sylvain with his mouth hanging open a bit is the dizzying array of spine-like fins that fan out from the king’s broad back and shoulders, forming what reminds him of a lion’s mane or a peacock’s tail behind his head, if either of those things also looked vicious and spiky. Long blond hair floats in a cloud around his face, completing the mane look.

Sylvain remembers to breathe only when King Blaiddyd says, “An Imperial deserter?” That blue eye bores a hole through Sylvain’s head. “Tell me why I should trust you.”

Sylvain opens his mouth and, of course, nothing comes out. He glances at Felix, nervous.

“He can’t speak,” Felix puts in for him.

“Is that so.” The king grunts and reaches back to pull a lance from his back, like Sylvain’s but longer and with a single, decisive blade curved at the top rather than the Lance of Ruin’s radiating spikes. He levels the lance until the blade is nearly pressed against Sylvain’s throat. Sylvain gulps. “Then I suppose he cannot beg for his miserable, traitorous life, either.”

“Back off,” Felix snaps, drawing closer and shocking Sylvain--not only with his boldness, but by defending him at all. “He’s not a spy.”

“What makes you so certain?” Dimitri demands.

The harsh tone doesn’t seem to deter Felix at all. “I just am. I’ll vouch for him and take responsibility, all right? If he screws up, I’ll deal with it personally.”

The king’s eye slides toward Felix, and then he sighs. “Very well.” Sylvain breathes a little easier as Dimitri puts his weapon away again and peers at Sylvain’s lance instead, a spark of curiosity in his eye. “Are you a warrior?”

Sylvain nods, confident at least about that.  _ It’s the one thing Gautier heirs are good for _ , he thinks with a bitter taste in his mouth.  _ That and making babies. _

“Hm.” King Blaiddyd puts a hand to his chin in thought. “Then you will earn your keep as a member of my royal guard. With a weapon like that, you’re either exceptionally competent, or a lowly thief. Your first skirmish will easily determine which.” He wears a little grin, and it looks both predatory and amused at the same time.

Felix scowls in protest, but Dimitri’s already retreating back into the gloom. “Come on,” Felix grumbles, pulling at Sylvain’s elbow.

As soon as they get outside, Sylvain grabs Felix lightly by the shoulder to get his attention and then points back toward the throne room with a disbelieving and confused look on his face.

“What?” Felix looks annoyed. “What did you expect, a warm welcome and a feast in your honor? You’re lucky he didn’t skewer you or throw you in the dungeon.”

Sylvain rolls his eyes--he has a feeling he’ll be doing that a lot here. He points at Felix, then jerks a thumb back behind him toward the palace and holds out a warning hand with an exaggerated stern expression, mouthing ‘back off!’ Then shrugs, looking confused again as he spreads his hands.

“Oh. That.” Felix glances elsewhere. “Well...after I saved your life, it seemed like a waste of effort to just let you die, that’s all.” Sylvain grins, shaking his head. Felix takes one look at his face and is back to scowling. “Fine. I don’t know, I just...believe you, I guess. I  _ was _ there when you were all...human and dying, after all. Just behave, I don’t want to have to kill you after all that.”

Sylvain presses both hands over his heart with a faux-sappy look on his face, and it’s Felix’s turn to roll his eyes. “You’re ridiculous. Now come on, I want to get you squared away so I can get back to my training.”

Sylvain follows him to the great honeycomb of caverns in the cliff face, where they ascend a few stories before entering one that overlooks the palace from what’s actually a pretty close distance when there’s no need to descend to the ocean floor first to reach it. They duck into a set of chambers right along the outer wall; glancing down the long corridor leading farther into the cliff, Sylvain can see that none of these dwellings have doors either, but they at least have curtains drawn across the doorways. Felix pushes his curtain closed once they’re both inside the...house, Sylvain supposes. “This is my place,” Felix says.

Felix’s place is nice, Sylvain thinks, if a bit spartan. He’d wondered how merfolk dealt with inanimate objects just floating away; as it turns out, they do it with a lot of cabinets and drawers, most of them made of glass--some transparent to reveal what’s inside, some frosted over or warped to prevent that. Sylvain furrows his brow for a moment and then snaps his fingers--glass, of course! Because they have no shortage of sand here. What else would they build most of their furniture from? Though how they craft glass without fire, he’s not sure. Magic, probably. He pays close attention to the personal touches, too--like the banner hung on one wall, featuring the same sigil as the one he saw on the palace flags: a chimeric figure in white, rampant, with a lion’s head and body, a long fish tail, and broad eagle wings, all on a deep blue backdrop. Why would people who live underwater have an animal with wings on their flag?--

“Hello? Are you listening?” Whoops. Sylvain blinks and fixes his attention back on Felix with a nod. “You can stay the night here, and tomorrow we’ll find you a place of your own in the barracks,” Felix says.

Sylvain nods again and opens his mouth, then pauses and glances down at the sand on the floor with an exasperated glare, as though the sand itself were responsible for his lack of voice, and not his own stupid self.. Felix catches the look and frowns in thought, then opens one of those glass drawers embedded in what looks like a writing desk to rummage around. “Here,” he says, handing Sylvain a thick stack of--is that seaweed? No, it’s parchment  _ made out of  _ seaweed, how clever is that?--and a duck-feather quill pen with a little glass vial attached to it, filled with what he assumes is ink. Maybe squid ink. Huh. “This will be a lot faster than charades and writing in the sand like a child.”

He lifts the quill to eye level to examine it. Sure enough, the ink in the vial seems to be connected to the hollow tip of the quill, somehow. He isn’t sure how they prevent it from spilling out, but there are countless questions he  _ could _ be asking and he has limited time. Felix arches an eyebrow. “What, do you surface dwellers not have pens?”

Sylvain gives him an unimpressed look and swims over to the writing desk to...sit?...down. It takes him a minute to figure out how to actually sit  _ on _ the chair instead of just floating above it, but he manages it. “What is wrong with you?” Felix wonders aloud, sounding not irritated but incredulous. “You swim like a hatchling, but you’re armed to the teeth and clearly those arms aren’t for show--” He breaks off with a little choking noise, and Sylvain laughs silently.  _ So, he thinks I have nice arms, huh? _ He makes a mental note to start flexing more in front of Felix, but in the meantime, he writes:  **Your place is so close to the palace.** The ink flows from the vial out of the quill’s tip and onto the parchment as he does, and stops when he stops. And he thinks he can see how they did it now, too--

Felix is already looking over his shoulder even as he finishes the sentence. “Oh. Didn’t I mention? I’m the captain of the royal guard. If something happens, I have to be the first one to reach Dimitri.”

_ Wait, Felix is the  _ captain _ of the guard? _ And Sylvian is meant to be joining it, which means...huh. He writes,  **Is that why you yelled at your king?** and then glances up with a smirk.

Felix scoffs. “If I were really yelling at him, we would have come to blows. No, he and I grew up together. I’m not about to stand on ceremony with someone I’ve seen wailing and throwing a tantrum while covered in mud and squid ink after he did something immensely stupid.”

Sylvain snorts, though he has a lot of trouble imagining King Blaiddyd that way.  **What’s with the creepy sea monster act?**

“Nothing you need to worry about. Is that all? I’m busy.” Sylvain puts down the quill and waves him off with a little shooing motion. Felix moves to the curtain, then glances back. “Stay here. I don’t need someone making a fuss because they don’t recognize you, before I get a chance to introduce you to the rest of the guard. I’ll come and get you for dinner.” He narrows his eyes. “And don’t think you’ll ransack my house and find any kind of sensitive information or valuables. I don’t keep that kind of thing here.” And with that, he slips out.

Sylvain wants to be offended, but he can’t really blame Felix. He  _ is _ still more or less a stranger. He’ll just have to work hard to make sure he doesn’t stay a stranger for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each of the mer-characters is modeled on a specific fish. Felix is a swordfish (not _just_ because swords, but also because they're very fast swimmers!), Sylvain is an angelfish (or Sylvaingelfish, if you will), and Dimitri is, of course, a lionfish. I haven't really described Annette in detail yet but she's a goldfish.

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to chat on Twitter, I'm [@missdhiarmada](https://twitter.com/missdhiarmada).


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